In Brooklyn, New York, my grandmother faced a shocking diagnosis of a small abdominal tumor. However, in early 1948, she discovered that the mass was a pregnancy, leading to the premature birth of my father. Fast forward to September 1980, I was born to two healthy Black parents at a hospital in Hollywood, California. The atmosphere was relaxed, with dim lights and jazz playing softly in the background, but the doctor’s comment on my light skin tone — “What? Did you have a fling with the milkman?” — shocked my mother, despite her bliss in that precious moment. These stories highlighted early on how racial bias taints the healthcare experiences of Black individuals, particularly during pregnancy and childbirth.
Growing up as a young Black woman, I was taught to avoid being perceived as “fast” or sexually promiscuous, as such behavior could lead to public shame and divine judgment. My parents, both professional dancers in the sixties and seventies, held liberal views but had their first children before turning twenty. Thus, the messages I received about sex encompassed both its potential for immense pleasure and the serious implications of childbirth.
“Having access to trustworthy care providers is crucial for survival.”
At age 15, my mother took me to my first gynecological exam. The OB-GYN was a Black man, a rare and trusted choice by my mother. This meeting imparted three vital lessons about navigating the medical system as a Black woman: representation matters, medical education must be contextually accurate, and having access to reliable care providers is crucial for survival. That first exam also revealed the importance of birth control and abortion as vital tools in resisting systemic oppression. At 23, I faced an unplanned pregnancy that I chose to terminate. I owe a great deal to Roe v. Wade and the Bleeker Street Planned Parenthood in New York City, which allowed me 13 years for self-discovery, academic success, and professional growth, ultimately earning my Master’s degree in counseling psychology and becoming a clinician for my community.
My first job was at a nonprofit assisting single Black mothers and their children in Oakland, California. Here, I witnessed firsthand the health disparities affecting Black birthing individuals in the U.S. Our clients suffered from the traumas of systemic oppression, which often resulted in poverty, homelessness, poor mental and emotional health, domestic violence, and increased rates of premature births and C-sections. Our role as therapists was to humanize our clients, treating them with love, respect, and dignity while fostering their connections with their children.
“It reinforced what I already knew about single Black mothers — they are resilient, resourceful, and strong, yet this resilience can come at the expense of their mental health.”
My early professional experiences illuminated how systemic racism erodes the Black community. Isolating birthing parents weakens the foundation of the next generation. If Black mothers are unsupported and unhealthy, the community suffers. I realized that although single Black mothers are incredibly strong and resourceful, this strength often comes at the cost of their mental health and emotional well-being. Just a few years later, I found myself pregnant and ready to embrace motherhood. Unmarried and uncertain of the father’s role, I reflected on my clients at the nonprofit. While I had family support, education, and some financial means, systemic oppression still presented challenges that money couldn’t mitigate.
“I learned that intentionally building a supportive community would be essential.”
When I shared my pregnancy news with my father, I felt shame despite our loving relationship. It echoed the narrative of being just another single Black mother in America. But I was determined to keep the baby. My father’s words resonated deeply: “Then you are going to have to do this on your own.” This sentiment did not imply solitude but rather that I needed to intentionally build a support network around me, including a care team to guide me through the complexities of pregnancy, childbirth, and postpartum recovery.
Due to my background, I was acutely aware of the alarming mortality rates for Black women and children. I also experienced two negative incidents at the hospital providing my prenatal care. One was inaccurate genetic test results, and the other was a mismanaged anatomy scan, both causing unnecessary stress during my pregnancy. Consequently, I decided that the traditional maternity care model was not suitable for me and opted for a home birth instead.
Exploring midwifery revealed that I could have a healthy and supported pregnancy with minimal medical intervention. I recognized that while medical assistance is crucial in emergencies, pregnancy is a natural process that should be embraced. I chose the midwifery model, valuing the wisdom and practices that have supported childbirth long before hospitalization became the norm.
My home-birth team comprised a midwife, her assistant, two doulas, and my best friend, who is also a midwife. They worked collaboratively with the hospital staff to ensure a seamless plan in case of transfer. My midwives prioritized my somatic intelligence, considering my physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being as essential elements of my birthing experience.
“The knowledge I gained about my body during this profound transformation was invaluable.”
The educational aspect of midwifery care empowered me immensely during childbirth. Understanding my body’s changes during this radical transformation was the greatest gift I could have received. At times, I needed emotional support; during my second birth, I appreciated help with mundane tasks like laundry and nesting. After my second pregnancy, having a postpartum doula was a game-changer for my recovery.
My therapist also played a critical role throughout both births. Diagnosed with prenatal depression and postpartum anxiety, ongoing therapy provided a safe space to navigate the emotional complexities of motherhood. My single status felt like a source of grief at times, but also a superpower on others. My therapist offered coping strategies, acted as a surrogate matriarch, and discussed potential psychopharmacological options when necessary.
“I wished I could have chosen an all-Black birth team, but the reality is there aren’t enough Black reproductive healthcare professionals.”
While writing this, I hoped to say I assembled an all-Black birthing team, but the lack of available Black reproductive healthcare professionals made that impossible. Instead, I chose birth-work and mental health professionals who listened to my concerns, acknowledged my experiences regarding race and identity, and made me feel seen. Following this approach culminated in the birth of two healthy daughters, whom I now raise alongside their father. This journey has inspired me to facilitate support groups and design retreats for pregnant and postpartum individuals to help them build their own communities.
We may not control the systemic forces that disrupt families, but we can choose who joins our care teams. Whether you give birth at home, in a birthing center, or a hospital, the right care team can significantly influence your experience. Select a group that encourages trust in your body, actively listens, and supports you when needed. While entrusting your care team can feel vulnerable, this vulnerability can transform into your greatest strength as a new parent.
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Summary:
This article reflects on a Black mother’s journey through pregnancy and childbirth, emphasizing the importance of building a supportive perinatal team. It highlights systemic challenges faced by Black birthing individuals and the significance of representation in healthcare. By sharing personal experiences, the author underscores the resilience and strength of Black mothers while advocating for intentional community building and supportive care.